My Own Beauty
by ICanFeel361
Summary: Bella's guilty of following her dreams to NYU and it's getting the best of her. Edward somehow sees right through her. "When we were at the table, I noticed that you had no color… in your lips, none at all, when you spoke." He leaned slightly forward, as if he wanted to touch them as he said it, inches away from me. "You were so cold." Self harm, comfort. For anyone who's ever hurt


In a single, impetuous moment, my glance around the restaurant found the party of people discernably distracted- perfectly permitting; I slipped gracefully, elatedly out of the room, past the entrance and into the warm night.

I wasn't quite sure how I'd managed it-a sort of palpable relief tingled in my palms, I flexed my fingers and let my arms swing back and forth as I crossed the street, like a wicked child- I let my lips curve upward, no one around to decode it, to decipher its possible cause, making it more genuine.

_It was working, _I thought. _I'm safe_. The dinner party had proposed a cumbersome situation: wearing a sleeveless black dress meant having to keep my wrists pinned to my sides, or when we sat down- my arms crossed and forearms hidden, while simultaneously attempting to sip my drink and eat my salty _p__ansotti alla genovese_ without revealing them- and somehow, I'd managed not to.

Finding the edge of the sidewalk, I sat and hugged my knees to my chest. I yawned, tears brimming my eyes, and leaned my forehead against my knees. God, I was tired- but a blissful kind of tired- I was finally at ease, comfortable, alone, in the beautiful warmth of the fresh air. Not like inside- not at the table full of people who could see too much. It was exhausting, really- having to put on this sham, and ironically, that's what I did for a living- or planned to.

The Dean of the Tisch School of Arts, my home these past few years, was hosting a private dinner party at _the Ivy_, one that had many to impress: school staff, his friends- potential employers, and only the best of the best students. An excellent place to make connections, sure, but it also had sizable potential to wholly alter my life: be pulled out of school, or worse, shake my reputation- which I was not typically so supercilious to care- but in this case, it mattered- I would, eventually, need a job, once we'd graduated. Word _does_ get around.

It was near impossible to truly hide my scars and cuts; they covered more than four inches of my forearms, my wrists viciously mauled- at least, it _looked_ that way. It wasn't _that_ bad, not really, but the stripes of bright red, dried blood of recent cuts gave it a more noticeable, horrific, gory appearance, and underneath were just brown, ugly, blurred, raised lines from older days.

Earlier tonight, I knew I had few options: wearing a long-sleeved dress would look ridiculous in this warm weather, even if it were short. Plus, the thread of the cotton would catch in the lines of dried blood, pulling them open again. This I'd learned when many times, on campus, I'd end up locking myself in a restroom stall and ripping up my sleeves, just to let the skin breathe. The skin there was so, _so_ sensitive and fragile, so damaged, it even had a beating heart of its own, that thudded dully . The _worst_ was when the scabby lines started to heal- they _itched_ like fucking hell. It hurt- so much so, that I'd rather they were exposed- no matter how panicked I was at the mere possibility of anyone questioning me about them.

Makeup provided no coverage, they were too much and too raised- anyway, it only made them _sting_ more, so that was entirely pointless. I could do without wincing the entire night. Another option: a bunch of silver bangles, a whole lot, to cover them, but I worried the noise would attract too much attention, more eyes, to my arms, and they might slide too much- I was better off without them, without that. In the end, it was all up to how well I could play it, how well I could hide it.

In preparation, it was best I didn't make them worse beforehand- can you imagine getting blood on the tablecloth- in front of everyone? So I washed my face and didn't think about the knife drawer; I applied my make up and didn't think about my poor, suffering parents; I slipped into the black, sleeveless dress and didn't think that it was 3rd from the bottom on the left side of the stove; I slipped on a pair of dainty, black heels, and didn't think that it had been two entire years since we had spoken. I stared into eyes with dark, bruise-like circles underneath and a lackluster complexion and smiled and left.

The restaurant entrance door opened across the street. Edward walked out, his hands tucked in his pockets, and for an infinite second our gazes locked. I smiled halfway at him, quickly adjusting my arms so that they were folded carefully over one another. Edward was brilliant, infamous for his talent, and we'd had similar circles of acquaintances and classes; we knew _of_ each other, but not really each other. And I was cautious. Always, always cautious.

"I'm jealous," he called out as he approached me, and I smiled guiltily back at him. "You managed to slip away, huh?"

"Only when Maynor had his third glass of whiskey," I joked. "They aren't already looking for me, are they? I asked, worriedly.

"Oh- no, no." He assured me. "Am I… interrupting?"

I shook my head and gestured for him to sit next to me. He did. I watched the smattering of dark hair across his jaw that made him look tired, but handsome, green eyes under dark brows, and his classic, dark suit, before I let my eyes stray back to the street.

"Not enjoying the party?"

"Not my scene," I shrugged. "Just more relaxing out here."

"It's a nice night, isn't it?"

I nodded and smiled, biting my lip unconsciously against the swell of happiness that permeated me. I'd built up so much anxiety for this- its absence left me almost light-headed.

"You look well," he commented. I could feel his lingering stare on me, but it wasn't bothering me much, like it should have, like it ought to- I was too busy, foolishly relishing in the success of my ruse.

"Mostly relieved to escape, I think," I laughed. He laughed with me. He didn't know we were thinking of different things.

"You like NYU, though?" He asked, casually, after a moment.

"Yeah, of course. I do. It's the best thing that ever happened to me. I love it. It's my- my _home_." I shook my head, smiling at my childishness.

"What?"

"It's almost like- I don't even want to graduate just yet. I just want to stay."

He nodded to himself, and licked his lips. "I know… I keep thinking how insanely lucky we are- to be able to pursue this, what we want. For me, it's not about making money, like it is for a lot of people, hell- it's not even about making movies, I could be doing plays or shorts for the rest of my life as long as I'm doing something that matters. For me- it's making something that touches people. Gives them heart."

"Heart?"

"Yeah. It's like people just go about their lives and get numb. Everything is just... mundane. And then you see something that makes you think a little. Feel a lot. And everything's just a little more beautiful- even if it's sad, because there's something about even that, you know?"

I felt a nervous flutter in my throat- my hand flew up to catch it. I'd always had this preconceived notion about him- what he was supposed to be, popular, intelligent, talented; so naturally, inherently, I assumed he would be full of ego. Instead, his summation was startlingly accurate, and full of depth, and- so much like how _I_ would have described it.

His elbows came to rest on his knees. I didn't know what to say, or how to say everything I suddenly wanted to- but he didn't even glance at me. He didn't need any reassurance from me, that what he felt was _right_, that it made any sense, that it held any sort of validity. It just was.

"So…why aren't you joining them, Edward? Drinking and merriment not your thing?" I wondered. He was entirely sober and smelled good, like cologne and tomato-y pasta.

"Not so much the drinking part- I started to feel like I was becoming too dependent on drinking a few years ago, so I stopped. It's been a while. I don't feel the need for it." He replied, honestly, pausing as we both looked up at the restaurant doors, where uproarious laughter sounded from a group of exiting women. "What about you?"

"I don't either, I guess. I was never into alcohol." I shrugged.

"So you're happy, then?" He asked, his expression inscrutable. I nodded slowly, suspiciously- what a strange thing to-

"Then why do you do that?" His eyes, suddenly so close, burned feverishly into mine.

_Shit_. Shit. My heart took off; it's beating scattered, rapid. I _knew_ he was too observant, too inquisitive to risk conversing with- I'd just lifted my hand to my neck- didn't I? _Dammit_. I breathed in sharply- my defensive side rose in uproar, almost barraging through my mouth without a second thought. _None of your business! I'm not crazy! I'm not suicidal!_ I forced myself to breathe again, pushing it away with all my resolve. That would only make me look crazier. God, why couldn't I just be normal, like everyone else? Why could I just be happy?

"I don't actually know what you're talking about," I replied deliberately, my skin prickling; I was horrified beyond belief, and I could feel the stress seep through my voice, stiffen my spine in an ice-cold grip, as I hoped- ineffably, foolishly, that he would let me play dumb, _pleading_ in my mind for him to please _ignore it, let me deny it, leave it alone_.

"You know," he said, flatly, not looking away from me.

I gestured toward the restaurant door and mumbled, staring into my lap, "It's not much different than what they're doing, drinking away in there. I just choose a different vice. That's all." My discomfort rang in every word.

"It's a little different." He challenged.

I tucked a piece of my long hair behind my ear: my hands seemed pale and detached.

Silence stretched before us for so long, I began to feel horribly awkward, unconsciously rubbing my wrists against my thighs.

He reached a hand out, and I startled at first, until I saw he was asking permission with his probing, bottomless eyes, and gently took my nearest hand by the fingers and brought it to his lap. He trailed the pad of his finger down the center of the cuts, just barely touching them- it made me shiver, but it didn't hurt.

"What do you use?" He asked, almost soundlessly, almost as if he hadn't meant to. I flinched, hard, away from him. I don't know why, but that was the most sensitive part for me. Dreams of that knife drawer disturbed me every night. I had also taken to carrying the blade of a razor with me everywhere, which only made me feel guiltier- especially when I started daydreaming about that, too. Like I was a druggie, in need of a fix- obsessed, unstable and completely tenuous.

When we both recovered and he tried again, "When?"

I moistened my suddenly dry lips, quickly debating on whether to him the truth; it lolled on the tip of my tongue. "Almost every night."

Every night, or around the hour of two or three in the morning, as I lay in bed, the insurmountable anxiety collapsed my lungs, a horrid, vaguely drowning sensation.

The only thing that gave it relief was exposing my blood to the air through the slice of a knife. I would find my way to the kitchen; my muscles locked up like a stone, a walking, moving stone. Heavy inside. I would open the kitchen drawer and their sharp, pointed ends would glint back at me. A knife would fly into my hands, making my heart race; I would bring it to my skin to slice with just enough pressure, enough to hurt, not to hit a vein. I wasn't stupid- I didn't want to end up in the hospital. That was as far as my self-control went. I did them neatly, tidy, of varying lengths, one after the next, parallel, in the center of my wrist, continuing downwards a few inches, and then I would layer another set on them the next day. My vision would begin to fade to black around the edges after the fourth, or fifth, or sixth- the black spots blooming like deadly flowers, dizzying me. My entire body would prickle all over, like static, alive, as a trickle of blood leaked down my arm, tears pouring down my face, because it was agonizingly painful as it was good, incredible. My head would spin pleasantly, and with ease I would go back to bed and drift to sleep, feeling whatever energy I'd had while cutting leave my body. It was terrible, to wake up, feeling so empty, as if I were nothing. But the fact that I was living my dreams kept me going and somehow, slowly killed me at the same time. I didn't know, wasn't sure how to free myself, exactly. Somehow- I'd gotten stuck along the way. But I couldn't tell Dan this. They would have me taken out of school and put away, I was sure of it.

"Why did you come out here, in the first place? To interrogate me about it? To tell everyone I'm a lunatic?" I fired back, flying up.

He hesitated. "When we were at the table, I noticed that you had no color… in your lips, none at all, when you spoke." He leaned slightly forward, as if he wanted to touch them as he said it, inches away from me. "Your eyes were cold and unnatural. You've always had this… this energy about you- it's what makes you thrilling to watch, as an actress- but it wasn't you tonight."

He'd been watching me? I looked at him with confused eyes.

He reached up and grabbed one of my hands, keeping me there. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I just…I didn't know how someone could be so beautiful and so sad at the same time. I had to know."

I felt so strange and disconnected, like I wasn't really there, yet my heart thundered in my chest the entire time.

"Will you tell?" I demanded, and maybe, just maybe, a little anticipative, a little optimistic.

His head shook and I don't know what made me answer, maybe his genuine nature, my need for confession- whatever it was, I was answering with fresh, uncut thoughts. "My parents were the type, the type that wanted me to do something for the money- something secure, a doctor, surgeon. But for good reason, we always struggled financially, and they depended on me. Not just for that, but a lot of things- emotionally. I made them happy. But I defied them, and I left them. They depended on me and my big brains and I very selfishly chose to follow my dreams. I just knew I _had_ to take this opportunity- no question- and I'm not wrong about that but… we stopped speaking- and- and it's been two years." My hands, my voice, my body all trembled embarrassingly.

"But I _am_ happy," I gasped, "Don't you see? I'm _happy_. That's why I do it. I'm the luckiest girl in the world. I get up every morning, excited, looking forward to the day, every moment, and then I remember…that I'm so, so, so _selfish_. I don't know if they're okay- if they hate me. I just want to tell my mom that- that I didn't _abandon_ them. That I'm still the same seven year old girl that could never, never sleep at night, that stayed up reading books under the covers; I'm still her- not some awful person, I don't think."

"It eats away at me, everyday." I gritted my teeth. "And maybe that's melodramatic- stupid, even. I just can't breathe until I-," I stopped abruptly and looked away from him, hiding my face in my shoulder against the onslaught of tears, though he continued to watch me almost fiercely.

He leaned over to wipe the tears from my cheeks gently with his fingertips. My eyes opened at my touch, met his briefly, his expression inscrutable.

"Does this ever get easier?" I breathed, and he reached for me, pulling me into a careful hug, I placed one hand around his strong back in return. His warm hands grasped me back more tightly and I felt him breathe deeply into my neck, felt his hair tickle my cheek. I was shocked at the tingle of heat that melted into me, the comfort of his embrace- I marveled at this, this _thing_ we had- almost strangers.

When I opened my eyes, pulled back, he was still there. "You've got it all wrong, you know. You've tainted yourself in your own head. You're brave and talented- it's how you got here." He said with conviction. "You're compassionate- it's why you do it. It's obvious to me. Don't let this-" he lifted my arm up, holding the brutal scratches and scrapes in clear view, "ruin you, define you. I know what it feels like. I don't mean to say that insensitively, but I get it. It's like- it's like love is becoming your weakness, your obstacle, working against you. You love _too_ much," he laughed, and I sniffed and felt my heart warm, in a different, inexplicable way than the earlier euphoria. "But you don't have to be a martyr to be good."

"Didn't you hear us? How many people can say _they_ _love what they do_?" I was nodding before he even finished.

"Call them." He told me. "Just try- talk to them, and when you start really working, you'll help them out. But don't worry about that now, yeah? Just know that you _will_."

"And, no matter what they say- you have to move on. That's all you can do."

I tried to argue with him, of course I did, but he grabbed my shoulders and reassured me, again and again, until I started to listen, really listen. He didn't stop talking- he didn't give up, and for the better part of an hour, we went on like that, bantering, unreservedly passionate, as was our nature- to the point where we began to fight laughter at how repetitive and bizarre the whole conversation had become.

"Maybe you're right," I whispered, with a sly smile. His hands delicately held the sides of my head, pressing on my hair, and brought our lips together, his pillowed ones pressing against mine lightly. He tasted so good, and for the first time in my life, I suddenly wanted someone so badly- I wanted _him_. I felt the stubble of his jaw and the softness of his cheekbone with my fingers and I _knew_, deeply, somehow, something had changed. I never knew you could meet someone and feel like this, I never knew they'd exist.

I laughed, a gasp-y sort of laugh, thick with tears, wiping the fallen ones from under my jaw with back of my hand. It suddenly struck me how much had changed, in this single moment- couldn't he see that, could he feel it? But it was written all over the way his mouth twisted upwards and something didn't seem to loom, dangle above me any longer- and it made no sense to me and all the sense in the world.

In another time, when I look at myself in the mirror, I touch my long dark hair, catch between two fingers a lengthy piece that hangs just on my cheek; I feel the softness of it, of my lips, the ones he kissed, kissed them until they were puffy and a deep red, in a beautiful way. They look loved. I feel loved. I feel warmth inside my heart that he somehow transmitted into mine. I feel love for myself. I look in the mirror and see what he sees: an ambitious, courageous, expressive girl, with so much love in her heart that she'd hate to hurt the ones she cares for. There was nothing wrong with me, not really, not as I'd conceived. And I know he is an unequivocally beautiful person - because he showed me my own beauty.


End file.
